Gotta start somewhere, right?

I want to write, but I do not know what to write about exactly.

Well…that is not exactly true. I have too many topics that I would want to write about. The trouble is, these essays, draft short stories, humorous (or less so) descriptions of my day-to-day ruminations, all remain firmly sealed in my head. Part of me, unsurprisingly so, believes I could not possibly even write anything that is any good. When I say good, I mean that beautiful harmony of style, mastery of language, and the depth of human experience. There are such masters around the world; if you are an English Literature student, perhaps Virginia Woolf or James Joyce would be closest or Sylvia Townsend; if you are more attuned to the ex-Yugoslav literary scene (as I am), Ivo Andrić or Meša Selimović come to mind. Before you, my dear reader (assuming you even exist), roll your eyes at this self-deprecation with a generous sprinkle of self-pity, let me assure you: I am fully aware of the standard and pressure I put on myself and the impossibility of ever getting remotely close to it without trying. So, this is me trying.

What is it that I am trying exactly? To start with, I am trying to have a regular writing commitment that I can sustain over a longer period of time, even when life becomes too much. And life tends to become too much, or I tend to make it so for myself. To give you a sense of how I make my own life difficult: after three years of therapy, I spat a big part of me out and was left with a whole space that needed to be filled. I decided to fill it with a return to literature, photography, and, more recently, a leap into pottery. There is a special place in my heart for all of these, and I cannot possibly imagine a life where I am not reading, taking photographs, experimenting with printmaking, or making wobbly pots. However, I almost ruined my soul-nourishing practice by being impatient and trying too hard too soon. So, I burnt out. It never occurred to me that creative practice can lead to burnout. Clearly, I missed something, a kind of memo that went around when I wasn’t paying attention.

After some very much needed hard, long look in the mirror, I realised that I tried too much, too hard, too soon. I burned from an unfulfilled desire for a creative outlet and a desperation to catch up with the time I lost. The worst thing (or the best thing?) was to recognise the limits of my abilities. No matter how devastating that realisation is, there is very little, if anything, I can do to make myself younger, more agile, have more energy, focus and clarity. Slow is the way.

Now I am back at it again with an intention to, against all of my instincts (and panic that comes when I act in contrast to them), take it slowly and see where the road takes me. Writing a blog nobody will ever read is a huge step for me. Because it is not about who reads it and what they think of it, it is about me sitting in front of a laptop and typing out 1000 words of some sense. Ultimately, I am doing it for the part of me that wants to be a writer.

What tipped me over to this side? Burnout was the wake-up call. But the question of what I missed remained. Some seemingly small things stacked up to bring me to this point. I met a lovely man at a writing retreat. Devoted to poetry and writing wonderful poetry, he does not seem to have any inclination or desire to publish them. It is addictive, indeed, the permission to write for oneself, for the love of the act of writing.

At the same retreat, we share our work from the week. It took some convincing, but I read a letter I wrote to my mom, who passed away from cancer in 2021. The entire room cried with me. The support, encouragement, and kindness these people showed me broke some barrier inside. My writing, no matter how clumsy, can extend my being and touch another. I realised one can find joy, meaning, and belonging through writing. So, I have decided to become a lover of the written word, an amateur if you will.

What will I write about? Well…there is a whole range of topics that interest me. I want to write about my experience of novels, poems, short stories, but also photography, films, music, and fine art. My recent repertoire includes Iris Murdoch (and her exploration of love as a way to see the other), Vladimir Nabokov and his masterpiece Lolita, Sophocles’ tragedies. I also want to give philosophy and psychoanalysis a go. Having completed courses on Introduction to Literary Theory and Critical Reading, I want to practise crafting literary essays. I have two sets of pre-assigned poems and short stories that I will work with. In conversation with these authors, I want to write about things that bind us, like love, loss, grief, and belonging, both as I have experienced and been transformed through them in life. Then I want to write about ordinary day-to-day experiences, like moving house, discovering BTS, turning forty in a year, pressures of academic life, yoga, joys of photography and pottery. The list is long, and that’s the beauty of it. I did not want to put myself in a cornered framework that would make writing a chore. I wanted it to be playful in its explorations, keeping an open mind that some coherent theme may emerge.

Some last remarks. I aim to publish one post every week. I don’t know what next week’s post will be, but as I said, that is what makes it fun. With time, maybe even my writing will improve. If you find yourself reading this post or one of the future ones and want to reach out, please do. I only ask that you be kind and respectful in your approach. With that agreement, we can disagree or agree to our hearts’ content.

With all that said, I guess what is left is for me to introduce myself. My name is N. I am 39 years old. I now live in Aberdeen (Scotland) with my lovely cat, Helga, and my partner. By day, I work as a law and humanities scholar at the University of Aberdeen. By night, I dream of publishing a novel, having a curated exhibition of my photographs, making unique pots and coffee mugs for my friends, and successfully growing a sourdough starter. It sounds like a cliché, but once you get to know me, you’ll see I add a lot of charm to the whole thing.

Thank you for reading, and until next time,

N.